


Fire and the Flood

by Reina_White



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Drug Use, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, Mickey Uses His Words, Pining, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-10 15:56:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12302541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reina_White/pseuds/Reina_White
Summary: Has the fear of rejection ever stopped you from pursuing something your really wanted? If you never ask then you can continue living with the idea that there is always a possibility. If you are never told no then you can hold onto that comforting thought of “Maybe, someday.”In which Ian is always leaving and Mickey struggles to find the courage to ask him to stay.





	Fire and the Flood

**Author's Note:**

> This story is canon complacent up to when Ian takes off with Monica after being arrested, the break up never happened.
> 
> Thank you, I hope you enjoy.

∞∞∞

You're the fire and the flood  
And I'll always feel you in my blood  
Everything is fine  
When your head's resting next to mine  
Next to mine  
You're the fire and the flood  
  
Since we met I feel a lightness in my step  
You're miles away but I still feel you  
Anywhere I go there you are  
Anywhere I go there you are  
Late at night when you can't fall asleep  
I'll be lying right beside you counting sheep  
Anywhere I go there you are  
Anywhere I go there you are  
  
There you are  
There you are

"Fire and the Flood" - Vance Joy

∞∞∞

Mickey waited.

The sound of the front door opening woke him from his sleep. He held his breath, tense, listening. Felt his ears twitch as the same door softly clicked shut a moment later. Careful footsteps echoed into his room in a familiar pattern, one that he had memorized long ago. Instinctually, his body relaxed, his mind followed. A giddy warmth sunk below his ribs and tingled through his limbs. He once hated himself for feeling this way, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care, not anymore.

Mickey rolled away from his bedroom door and stared at the opposite wall. Remained still as his heart danced, listening to careful footsteps as they entered his room and paused.

With a rustle of clothing and a ruffle of blankets the bed slowly dipped next to him, hot breath blew across the nape of neck and a firm body pressed against his back, skin against skin. Strong arms hugged him from behind, a warm scent filled his nose and fluttered through his stomach, breathed feelings of tranquility through his veins. Cinnamon, bergamot and smoke. Ian. Mickey grabbed the large freckled hand that had moved to lay against his chest and brought it to his face, nuzzled his cheek against the rough palm. Moved the back of Ian’s hand to his lips and brushed a sweet lingering kiss across scarred knuckles. Cradled it gently between his own tattooed fingers. The man behind him stayed still. His breath was steady, even, but Mickey could feel the heartbeat against his back. It danced the same anxious rhythm as his own.

He rolled around to face the other man. It was just past midnight, the room shadowed by the night. Illuminated only by the streetlights outside, an artificial glow that crept through old thin window curtains translucent from age. They stayed silent, studying each other. Ian had become a bit too thin again, but he was still just as beautiful as when Mickey had first looked at him, _really_ looked him. When he was just a pretty freckled boy pinned beneath him, eyes honest and sweet in a way Mickey had never seen before. Eyes that sucked him in like a black hole, kept pulling him in deeper, deeper.

That day felt so far away, now. 

Those same green _(blue, gold)_ eyes stared back at him now, still just as sweet, but wiser. Haunted. These eyes had seen more than most, were always hungry to see more.

Mickey moved his head in close and nuzzled his nose against Ian’s. Brought his hand up to caress a pale cheek, thumb brushed softly against a sharp cheekbone, looked into eyes that stared back at him steadily. Deeply.  He let his eyelids flutter shut as their lips met in a soft kiss, welcoming him home. Silently communicating what both men felt down to the darkest depth of their souls, but always struggled to say out loud.

_I love you I love you I love you_

Ian’s hand gently cupped the back his head, fingers nestled into short, inky black hair. He tilted his head and deepened the kiss in a way that always made Mickey’s toes curl, though he would never admit to such a girly reaction.  Ian pulled away, slowly, and grazed kisses softly across Mickey’s bare shoulder before resting back against the pillow. With a soft smile and kind eyes, Ian watched him. Studied him. Saw him like no one else ever had. His gaze made Mickey feel vulnerable, exposed. But also loved, cherished. Valued. Ian was always able to see Mickey so clearly. The good, the bad. Evil. Accepted it all with graceful passivity. He would calmly peal back Mickey’s shell to reveal new layers, bringing to light fragile parts of his soul that he had fought so long to keep hidden. Mickey would hold his breath in fear but Ian would only just love him more and more and more. As if it was the easiest and most natural thing he could do.

“You’re sleeping on my side of the bed.” Ian whispered, amused, moving his fingers to rub gently at the back of Mickey’s head. Soothing. Mickey reared his head back in mock offense, raised his eyebrows.

_It smelled like you. I missed you._

“Your side of the bed, huh? Pretty sure this is my fucking bed.” Mickey argued, teased. Falling into the same familiar dance. As though the last couple months had never gone by.

_Inched, crept, and dragged by._

A car drove down the street, its headlights flashed into the room brightening Ian’s face. Mickey felt his chest swell at the sight of the other man. Awed blue gems flickered from soulful sea green eyes to soft pink lips. Memorized the faded freckles that were painted across his porcelain skin, some old and some new. Mickey moved his hand from Ian’s cheek down to his naked waist and pulled him in close. Tucked his head into Ian’s broad shoulders and breathed him in.

“Tell me where you went” He whispered, clutching the man into him. Legs tangled. Ian’s hand trailed down to rest against the small of his back, traced patterns into his spine that sent shivers of pleasure through his mind.

Ian spoke softly, carefully. His deep warm voice a gentle whisper. “I hitchhiked for a few days before I met a married couple, maybe mid-twenties. They were living out of a van, reminded me of when I was little.” Ian begun. “They were just travelling around, ya know? Couple of hippies going wherever the wind blows or some shit.”

Ian continued, whispered stories of his journey to the West Coast sunshine. He travelled in the back of that old van until warm salty air wafted through cracked windows. Smoked blunts for breakfast and listened to the hum of acoustic songs laced with static from a rusty old stereo. Danced with strangers around a bonfire like feral children, wild eyed and barefoot, pretending to live a dream they had learned to abandon long ago. Curled up into Mother Nature’s embrace under the lunar gaze, cocooned in nests of old wool blankets upon warm sand. Listened to stories told by jaded souls, laughing loudly at the cruel jokes of life.  Lulled to sleep by the unwavering heartbeat of the ocean, waking to the sounds of seagulls chattering and the heat of the sun gently kissing golden freckles across his skin. Jumped from rocky ledges into the enigmatic waters of a cerulean kingdom. Knees scrapped by coral, salty skin and sandy hair.

Ian spoke about his travel back home. His feet raw from walking barefoot across hot sand, skin tender and pink from the sun’s heated caress. Travelled with that same hippy couple all the way to Lincoln, Nebraska. Picking up odd characters along the way. They parted at a bus stop, and he continued by foot for another hour before entering an old diner for a cup of coffee. Unzipped his backpack and found that they had stuffed an ounce of sweet, sticky, bud into his bag as a parting gift.

He ventured the rest of his way home on his own, either walking or getting rides from friendly strangers. Sharing blunts in exchange for their kindness, smoking until it was all gone. Slept in alleyways and on park benches staring up at the sky. Stars drowned out by the synthetic glow of city but still so beautiful.

Mickey could listen to Ian speak for eternity. His voice deep and raspy, spellbinding. With whispered words he painted pictures upon the back of Mickey’s eyelids. Allowed Mickey to see the world as Ian saw it, a way no one else could. Enchanting.

This boy with his beautiful, wonderfully strange mind.

Mickey knew these adventures weren’t always as pleasant as Ian portrayed them to be. He would come home sometimes with new scars or bruises, skillfully changing the subject whenever questioned. Smiling easy and shrugging away concern. Mickey wondered if Ian kept those stories locked away for his own sake or for theirs.

When Ian had left with Monica two years ago, Mickey was in pieces. He tried desperately to find something, someone, _anything_ to make him forget. To stop thinking about this elusive copper haired boy. But his mind constantly chanted a hum woven with fear, set on repeat.

_I’m always going want him,_

_I’m always going to need him._

Mickey wanted to sink, _dig_ his nail bitten fingers deep into his ears and scratch, scratch, scratch out his thoughts. Sometimes his fear would become so loud, unbearable. Terrified that Ian was out there somewhere, lost, hurting. Alone. Terrified that he would never see him again.

Mickey soon found refuge in a bitter malty poison, drinking until his vision doubled. Delirious and incoherent.  A whirlpool of twisting, spinning nausea pulsing though his body. He drank until he passed out, soaked in the sticky brew and his own vomit.

Ian eventually returned after a long two weeks of utter silence. Calmer, peaceful. As if nothing had ever happened. He stayed at Mickey’s house, right where Mickey wanted him. His bed. His arms. The redhead soothed his sibling’s worry and nodded in agreement when they pleaded with him to take his medication. For three wonderful months Ian and Mickey lived together, ate together, and showered together. Laughed, spoke, and breathed together. Fell asleep every night wrapped up in each other’s arms, naked and sweaty under a thin scratchy blanket. Mickey would open his eyes each morning with a foreign giddy bliss bubbling in his mind. An excitement for life that he had never experienced before.

He had once again thought, foolishly, that maybe Ian was better. That they had finally reached their “happily ever after” or some bullshit. He didn’t understand this sickness like Ian’s siblings did, never having really experienced it before.

He remembered that day, when Ian disappeared again. He stayed up all night sitting on the couch in his quiet, empty house. Waiting. Trying to convince himself that they were wrong. Ian didn’t leave.  But as the sun began to rise and he was still alone, he knew. Maybe Mickey wasn’t a fast learner, but he wasn’t a fucking dumbass. He caught on, soon enough.

Like mother, like son. Ian would always leave.

Sometimes he would pack a bag, Mickey would see that his stuff was gone, would know. Sometimes Ian left with only the clothes on his back.

With gentle touches and pleading glances, Mickey would silently beg Ian to stay. Tried to voice his wish, but each and every time his fragile ego would reach up into his throat and catch the words before he could choke them out. Just like the first time.

“ _Don’t…”_

“ _Don’t what?”_

_Don’t leave me._

No matter what he did, it was inevitable.

So when Mickey noticed Ian getting restless, flighty, he would hold him tight and kiss a silent prayer into the copper haired boy’s soft pink lips.

_Promise, promise, promise._

This nomadic lifestyle soothed Ian’s relentless soul. Constantly coming and going, never staying in one place too long. Lately, he was away more than he was home- leaving for weeks at a time. Sometimes he would send a text or call. He would never say much, just enough to let Mickey know that he was still alive. The man was like water always slipping through his fingers, forever moving, learning, and seeking.

_Running, hiding, abandoning._

This last time was the longest. Ian had left just before June and July was now coming to an end. Mickey had counted down the days. Felt something begin to splinter and shift within him, fear. Resolution.

Laying in their bed now, Ian continued to absently trace patterns into Mickey’s skin. The black haired man sighed softly and lifted his head. Studied the other’s peaceful expression for a moment. His blue eyes darted over Ian’s figure and he bit his lip, feeling warmth swell in his stomach. He dragged his gaze back up to the copper haired man’s face before speaking.

“Missed ya, man.”

Ian’s lips twitched, raised his hand to the side of Mickey’s head and caressed his ear. The smile on his face didn’t reach his eyes. “I missed you too, Mick. So much.”

“Yeah?” Mickey grumbled, disbelief.

_Then why didn’t you come back sooner?_

Ian stared back, face sweet and open. Honest. Carefully picked thoughts from the sacred garden within his mind before turning them into words, planting seeds in Mickey’s heart that would grow like weeds.

“I see you all the time though, you know?” Ian whispered, almost timid, “I can see you when I close my eyes.” He moved his hand and tentatively brushed a thumb across Mickey’s cheek.

Mickey hated the term “making love” it made him cringe with discomfort, he preferred much more vulgar and blunt terminology. However he could admit, if only to himself, that there was no other way to describe this. And maybe Mickey gripped Ian’s hair too tight, bit down on broad shoulders too hard, maybe he left scratches too deep down the milky skin of Ian’s back, raw and red.

But Ian didn’t complain, didn’t flinch. Responded to the abuse with whispering kisses and firm, soft, hands.

_I hate you_

_I know_

_I love you_

_I’m sorry_.

They fell in, curled around each. Hearts singing in harmony, souls weaved together with unbreakable threads. Then Mickey fell asleep, slowly, to the careful touch of Ian’s fingers whisking away his tears.

-

They stayed in bed the next day, in their own little world. Kisses laced with morning breath that neither minded, soft touches, sleepy smiles. Ian whispered questions about his family, Yevgeny, Mandy, even Svetlana. When Mickey spoke about how well they were doing Ian would smile a wistful little smile that made Mickey’s heart squeeze. He told Ian that they still missed him, asked about him all the time. Worried.

_They might be surviving without you, but I’m not. I’m not, I’m not._

They ordered pizza and ate in bed, naked, sitting with their backs against the headboard. Hips pressed against each other. Always touching. Propped Mickey’s beat up laptop up on the bed and watched the cheap porn his brother had downloaded before he got locked up. They cracked jokes about the cheesy plotlines, fake tits, and exaggerated moans. Ian laughed gleefully at all of Mickey’s quips and snide remarks, even the ones that were a little too mean and not all that funny.

Inspired, Ian expressed his intrigue in some of the more creative positions and Mickey eagerly indulged him, laughing as they attempted to contort their bodies to mimic the ones they had seen on the screen.

As dusk approached they showered together, sweaty, legs weak. Love bitten, messy hair and goofy smiles. Mickey washed Ian’s chest, fingers traced a shiny pink scar that swept across a sharp collarbone until Ian grabbed his hands, kissed them. Looked at him with sad, soft eyes.

They crawled back into bed, naked and clean. Damp hair and skin that tasted like soap. Mickey laid back and pulled Ian between his legs, wrapped around him. Held him close as they moved.

_Closer, closer, closer._

He knew, without a doubt, that he could never love someone else this way. This intense, all-encompassing love that made every cell in his mind and body shudder with ecstasy.

Hours later, as they began drifting towards sleep blinking dazedly into each other’s eyes, Mickey cautiously whispered a question he had always been afraid to ask. Spoke before tendrils of fear could wrap around his words and pull them back into his mind.

_Why do you always leave me?_

“Why did you leave?”

Ian reached his hand up to play with the hair at the nape of Mickey’s neck. Heard what Mickey really wanted to say, always did. Chose his words carefully, open and honest.

“It’s like riding a bike, Mick. I have to keep moving or I’ll fall. If I stay still for too long… I’m afraid I won’t get up again.”

Mickey’s eyes darted back and forth between Ian’s, replied quietly but with conviction. “Don’t be a dumbass, you know I would pick you up.” the hand on the back of his head stopped moving, tensed.

“You shouldn’t have to do that, Mick.”

 “I fucking _want_ to. I can help you, Ian.”

Green eyes met blue. A deep sadness echoed into Mickey’s soul and made his stomach twist tight and painful.

“No, Mick,” Ian’s fingers started their soothing pattern again and with a small, haunting smile, he continued.

“I don’t think anyone can.”

-

Sunlight filtered through his room, golden rays illuminating fairy dust that sparkled through the air. Birds sang good morning to the new day, muffled by the buzz of civilization coming back to life. A couple down the street bickered on their front porch, a dog barked and growled out threats at neighbourhood kids who squealed and cackled in delight, running past on their way to school.

Mickey woke gently to a sweet scent wafting into his room, sounds clinking from within the house like porcelain chimes. He blinked his eyes, pale irises stung by the sun’s touch. Rolled over and grabbed the pillow Ian slept upon and inhaled deeply, hugged it to his chest. Allowed a few moments to centre himself before climbing out of bed to stumble towards the kitchen, pausing only once to hastily pull on a pair of grey sweatpants and a black t-shirt with cut-off sleeves.

The house was clean, countless beer cans that were previously scattered across every surface now nowhere to be seen. The pile of ashes and stale cigarette butts that were once scattered on the ground by the couch, spilled by Mickey’s drunken fumbling hands, now gone. Swept away. The house was spotless, and Mickey wondered vaguely, with a worried frown, if the redhead had even slept.

Ian stood in his kitchen barefoot and shirtless, relying on the morning sun shining through the windows to light his way. Moving gracefully, hair mussed and eyes bright. It was like someone had cracked open Mickey’s head and turned his dreams into holographic print, projecting the vision before him. Mickey stood, watching. Body tingling and mind vibrating with pleasure. Once again, his breath was taken away by Ian’s simple existence.

The red head turned, a smile blossomed across his face that made Mickey’s heart stutter.

“Morning, Mick” He chirped, lightly “I’m making pancakes!” Grinning impishly, Ian turned back towards the counter and loaded a few on a plate. Gestured for Mickey to take a seat as if this was a totally normal occurrence.

Groggily, Mickey shuffled towards the dining table and sat. He watched, mesmerized, as the redhead brought him a plate and a cup of steaming black coffee before sitting down next to him with a plate of his own.

Mickey dug in, gaze remaining magnetized to the other man. Afraid, almost, that he would wake up and find that this was all just a dream.

“So, what are you doing today?” Ian asked. Cutting his pancakes into pieces, moving them around on his plate, not taking a bite.

Mickey paused to take a sip of coffee before answering. “Fuck, I don’t know. Go put some cash in Iggy’s commissary. Check on the Rub and Tug, same shit different day.”

Ian hummed thoughtfully, eyes drifting to the window, gazing at the blue sky outside. Mickey watched him from the corner of his eye, trying to read his expression without much luck. Mickey had a million little quirks that Ian would tease him about. Unconsciously, he would bite his lip when he wanted something but was holding back, would rub his eyebrow with his thumb when he was stressed out. The redhead could read him like a book.

Ian, however, was the opposite. If he didn’t want you to know what he was thinking, you wouldn’t. Years of practice being the quiet middle child, afraid to be a burden, to cause trouble.

Glancing down at his plate Mickey cut another piece of his pancake before speaking.

“You gonna go visit your family? They miss ya.”

Green eyes continued to gaze out the window a moment longer before turning to face Mickey. He smiled suddenly, brightening up.

“Oh, hey! The weatherman said that there’s a chance of thunder later. I bet it will pour,” Ian grinned with excitement, “I love summer storms!”

He quickly stood, humming to himself as he left the room. The sound of the shower started.

Mickey wondered if Ian even heard him, wondered if he cared.

-

Mickey had tried to get Ian to come along with him but the elusive redhead had other plans. He promised that he would be back before Mickey was, that he wasn’t taking off, and Mickey believed him. As flighty as Ian was, he was still honest. Would never break a promise.

After visiting Iggy, Mickey made his way to the Alibi, fighting the urge to stop by his house. To see if Ian was there, to kiss him. Be with him for a while. Just fucking see his face or whatever.

Thick plum tinged clouds hovered in the sky above him, air sticky and humid. A promise of the coming storm. He entered the bar, letting the door slam roughly behind him as he sauntered inside. Svetlana sat at the bar while Kev stood on the other side wiping down cups.  They both turned to stare at Mickey as he walked by, studying. He raised his eyebrows at their heavy gaze.

“Fucks up with you assholes?” He moved his way towards to staircase, intent to get this over with so that he could hurry home before it rained, back to Ian.

“Orange boy is back” Svetlana spoke, her words made Mickey pause. Turned to look at the pair, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Guard up, defensive.

 “Yeah, man” Kev agreed. “Fiona came by looking for you, asking about him. No one was at your house. There was an extra hundred bucks in the squirrel fund this morning.”

“Also,” Svetlana interjected smugly “You walk funny. Orange boy have big cock, I’ve seen.”

Mickey's eyebrows shot high up his forehead, “Ok! you need to shut the fuck up now. Jesus _fucking_ Christ.” he snarled, eyes darted around to see if anyone had heard her words before walking closer towards his pseudo-wife and business partner.

“Yeah, he’s back, ok? Why the fuck do you care?”

Kev studied Mickey’s expression, spoke softer than the Russian woman, “Hey man, no pressure. Just tell Ian we're glad he’s back, ok? His family misses the hell out of him, it’s just not the same with him gone.”

Svetlana sighed “Tell him to come see baby. Yvegeny misses him too, does not understand why he always leave.”

Mickey stared at them, eyes shifting between the pair before conceding.

“Fine, I’ll tell him. But lay off, if people jump down his throat he’ll just fuck off again.”

Svetlana stared back, eyes hard.

“He will fuck off again, no matter. Always does.”

-

Mickey made it all the way to his block before the sky cracked open and rain began to fall, sudden and heavy. He ran the remaining distance but was still soaked by the time he reached his porch. He slammed the front door open, cursing under his breath, slammed it behind him just as loud.

It took him a moment, standing there, before he noticed that the lights were off. The house quiet. He wandered through the living room, stomach sinking deeper with each step. Peaked into an equally empty bedroom.

“Ian?” he called hesitantly.

Suddenly the living room light flickered on. He quickly turned to the room when a shot of water squirted into his face, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut and flinch his head back.

“What the actual fuck” Mickey cursed loudly and wiped his hand across his eyes roughly. Ian’s musical laughter chimed through the room, blanketing his anger and warming his heart.

Blue eyes blinked open to see the redhead standing in the middle of the living room. A small neon green water gun in his hand, a cheeky grin painted across his face. Smug.

“Look what I found at the dollar store!” Ian waved the plastic shotgun in the air.

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up high on his forehead “Uh huh, real fucking nice Ian. I don’t know if you have taken a look outside but it ain’t exactly water gun weather.” He paused “Why the fuck were you all the way over at the dollar store anyways, man.”

“Getting Yevgeny a gift” Ian answered simply, shoving a small plastic gun in Mickey’s hands.

“I got a gun for you too, locked and loaded” Ian continued, nonplussed “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”

“Yeah, not happening. I just had a fucking water fight with the goddamn sky,” Mickey grumbled as he looked down at the item in his hand, paused, then stared back up at Ian in disbelief.

“Ok, what the fuck are you playing at here, firecrotch.”

Ian’s eyes twinkled with mischief “What?” he asked with false innocence.

“Why did you get me a fucking pink gun,” Mickey waived the offensively bright pink toy at Ian, who shrugged in response.

“They only came in pink or green.”

“Then get _two_ fucking green ones!”

Ian’s eyebrows furrowed, pretending to be confused “But we would get them mixed up?”

“We would get them- Jesus fucking Christ. I’m not using a fucking chick gun!”

Ian tilted his chin up, eyes lit with amusement. He quirked an eyebrow as he gazed down at Mickey “Wow, real progressive, Mick.” He teased and reached to take the small pink gun from Mickey, handing him the green one instead.

“Ok, fine.” Ian smiled “I’ll kick your ass with a pink gun then” He raised the plastic toy evenly with Mickey’s face and pulled the trigger, squirting water onto his cheek once again.

Mickey flinched back, momentarily shocked once again. He raised his hand to wipe the water away. Looked up to meet Ian’s smug, challenging gaze.

“Why the fuck do you keep shooting me in the face!”

Ian’s eyes brightened and with an impish grin, shrugged.

“I dunno, man. You’ve always been into that shit.”

“Ok! That’s it” Mickey growled, ears hot. He gripped the plastic in his hand. “You’re a dead man, Ian Gallagher.”

Ian laughed loudly, and darted past Mickey to escape down the hall. The shorter man moved after him, a vicious grin on his face. They chased each other around the house, untamed youth, their laughter roared along with the storm outside. Hollering out vulgar but empty threats, jumping off furniture and hiding behind doors. Ian locked himself in the safety of the bathroom and tried shooting at Mickey’s feet from under the door, shouting out insults, drunken with joy. Mickey couldn’t help but grin brightly at the other man’s silliness. Calling a truce only once to refill the small guns before starting up again. Playing fast draw like cowboys at a shootout, arguing with jest as they tried to determine the winner. Neither really caring. Finally, feeling the dampness of the carpet beneath their feet and seeing the water stains on the ceiling they agreed to call it a tie, breathless and bright eyed. Laid down, sprawled out on the living room floor. Side by side.

“See, that was fun. Right?” Ian rolled over to look down at Mickey. Green eyes shining, damp hair and flushed cheeks. Mickey drank in the sight, the moment. Swallowed down his awe before responding with forced annoyance.

“Yeah, real fun. My house is a fucking water park now.” He grouched.

Ian looked around and pursed his lips, flopped back down “Water dries.” He replied, unconcerned.

Mickey turned his head to meet Ian’s eyes. They lay still, for a moment. Damp and cold on the hard floor, listening to the rain crack against the roof like popcorn. Smiling at each other, happy, and oh so very in love.

Ian pulled off his wet shirt and Mickey caught sight of the scar across his collarbone, its origin still a mystery. He watched Ian discreetly, studying. Felt brave, if just for a moment.

“Where’d ya get the money for your family and Yev?” Mickey asked with false nonchalance. Ian glanced at him, evidently taken off guard by the unexpected question. Mickey didn’t often pry, preferred to avoid the hard truths. Pretended not to see them. “I mean, I know those hippy assholes gave you some good shit, but you said you smoked most of it or just fucking gave it away.”

Ian hummed thoughtfully, his finger drifted up unknowingly to brush against the scar, still pink in its newness. Mickey swallowed, watched the movement with sinking dread. Green met blue contemplatively, saw Mickey’s poorly hidden fear and paused. Ian flashed a grin, too bright and sudden to be genuine. Rolled over again to face the smaller man.

“I got a gig at the circus” He exclaimed, smiling with jest at the ridiculous, obvious lie. He knew Mickey would see right through it. Ian could hide things, mask his emotions, but he couldn’t tell an outright lie. Honesty woven too deeply into who he was.

Mickey heard the truth loud and clear.

_I can’t tell you_

_I don’t want to scare you_

_Let’s pretend to be ok, for a little while longer._

Mickey cocked his eyebrow,“Yeah?” He questioned. Playing along.

Ian nodded “Yeah, Mick. Throwing knifes. Taming tigers. That sorta shit.”

Mickey raised both eyebrows high on his forehead and looked the other boy up and down “That right, tough guy? More like they stuck you in a fucking dress and called you a bearded lady.”

Ian flopped back over against the ground, cackling with delight. Always found so much humour in Mickey’s snark.

“Fuck you, Mick. I’d make a beautiful woman.” The redhead elbowed the black haired man playfully, Mickey shoving him back before snarling out a retort. “With those shoulders and big ass feet? Not fucking likely.”

Their laughter drifted off, floated back into comfortable silence. Stared into each other with eyes, lit with mirth. Mickey glanced down to Ian’s chest and brushed a hand along his scarred collarbone. Swallowed down the question lingering on the tip of his tongue. It burned his throat on the way down, landed heavily in the pit of his stomach.

Letting out a soft sigh, Ian reached up and gripped Mickey’s hand. Held it against his chest, his heart beating a bit too fast against Mickey’s palm.  Green eyes focused on the ceiling as he spoke, avoiding Mickey’s questioning gaze.

“My mom knows some people through her old boyfriend.” Ian explained, vaguely. “Sometimes I help them out, and they help me out.”

Mickey furrowed his eyebrows “What the fuck does that mean?” he gruffly prodded “What sorta shit you helpin’ them out with?”

Ian shrugged, still avoiding Mickey’s eyes “Mostly just drug stuff. Getting stuff to the dealers, selling a bit at parties or clubs.” He turned his head, finally looking Mickey in the eyes. “It’s not that big of a deal, isn’t much different from what your brothers used to do. Except, you know... I’m actually careful.”

Mickey reached his free hand to rub his eyebrow, tightened his grip on Ian’s hand slightly.

“Yeah, ok.” He whispered, even though it wasn’t. He knew how reckless Ian could be when he was manic, and this revelation painted another coat of worry over Mickey’s mind. The added weight on his shoulders sunk him down. Already drifting below the surface, how much longer until he drowned?

Suddenly, a bright flash shot through the room, blinding, and then a blanket of darkness fell upon them. Loud booms of thunder punched against the walls. Mickey blinked, adjusting his eyes to the shadowed room. Neither boy was surprised by the power-outage, the storm outside was relentless, ferocious. It was only a matter of time. He felt Ian shift beside him, stand up.

The two young men changed into dry clothes in the quiet dark, the glow of a dying cellphone lighting their way. Obviously now unable to cook, they curled up on the damp couch eating slightly stale Pringles for dinner and off-brand Oreos for dessert. Every little noise seemed amplified without the constant electrical buzz insulating the world around them. The heavy patter of rain drummed into the silence, aqueous footsteps tap-dancing across the roof. The occasional swish of muddy puddles as a car drove by. The sound of Ian’s strong steady breath whispering warmth against Mickey’s lips as he leaned in to kiss him, soft. Invisible sparks crackled in the air, not just from the static of the rumbling storm.

Slowly, Mickey’s once seemingly innocent touches crept beneath the fabric of Ian’s clothing, feeling, pulling until it was just them and their bodies. He felt needy, desperate to be closer to Ian. Closer, closer, closer. Panting, their breath heavy and loud in the stillness. Skin sticky with sweat like morning dew. The summer night was humid, hot. So hot. Gasping into freckled shoulders, biting down, soft little noises muffled before they could creep past his lips and escape into the night. Brows furrowed in pleasure. The comforting weight of Ian above him, pushing into him until they moved as one. Mind, soul, body. Mickey kept telling himself that he couldn’t possibly fall any deeper, yet here he was. Every minute, every second. With every heartbeat. Falling, falling, falling.

-

Two weeks drifted by. Soft kisses, warm gazes, heated touches. Mickey abandoned all responsibility, trusted Kev and Svetlana to take care of things for him. He wanted, _needed_ , to spend every moment with Ian. He let go and allowed himself to become completely immersed in the beautiful, inscrutable, man.

They spent mornings lazing in bed, whispering careful words. Ian spoke about an old homeless woman he shared his blanket with outside a convenience store one rainy night. Within her bag she carried a book a poems. Old classics, tried and true. Read to him until they fell asleep, pretty words inked across worn paper. She was gone when he woke up, blanket tucked around him tight.  Ian spoke to Mickey about a stray dog that the redhead had temporarily adopted. Splitting his meals with the furry friend for days no matter how little he may have.  Mickey’s eyes glanced down at Ian’s thinned figure, frowned.

Mickey told Ian about his brothers. All of them had dispersed, the only one still living at the Milkovich house besides Mickey was Iggy, and he was locked up after getting caught selling coke about a month back. Colin had knocked up a chick and put a ring on it, moved away to avoid the meltdown that would undoubtedly occur once Terry got out of prison in a couple years and saw Colin’s wife, her skin rich and dark like coffee.

As the days went by, Ian begun to sleep less and less. Waking up early to run, to clean. Sometimes he would laugh just a little too loud, grin too brightly. His long legs would bounce up and down, fingers tapped, restless.

At night, Mickey would hold him a little tighter.

Desperate to keep the redhead occupied, they rode the L with no destination in mind. Stopping at random locations, following Ian’s intuition to discover hidden treasures. They found a pizza shop that sold large, greasy slices for only a buck each, owned by a middle aged Italian woman who didn’t flinch but rather smiled fondly when Ian pressed an unexpected kiss against Mickey’s head. They wandered over to a small park with tall trees that gave the illusion of privacy and shared a joint, laid back and basked in the warmth.

The next day they discovered a theatre that played old action movies and had poor security. Mickey followed Ian as they walked across the floor sticky with dried soda beneath their feet and sat unnoticed in the back of a near empty theatre. Mickey was pretty sure he spent more time stealing glances with freckled man beside him than watching the men fighting on screen.

One early morning after a sleepless night, Mickey led Ian to the old baseball field. Seated on groomed grass they watched the sun rise, apricot rays blooming across the dusky blue sky. Ian kissed him right then and there and though Mickey’s heart thudded in fear at the risk of being spotted by morning joggers who ran past, he couldn’t bring himself to move away. Pulled Ian in, deeper.

They visited Yevgeny, first. The little toddler clung to Ian like a newborn monkey and Ian held the small blonde toddler as though he might fall apart in his arms. Stared at him in awe, emerald gaze soaked with love. Soft, gentle. Yevgeny babbled nonsense in his strange half English half Russian baby talk and Ian watched and listened so intently that one would think he was being told the most sacred of secrets.

Finally, they visited Ian’s siblings. The redhead seemed oddly reluctant, hesitating before opening the front door and announcing his arrival.

Carl greeted Ian with a casual pat on the back and a big grin. Debbie cried as she hugged him. Liam watched from the couch, unfazed. So used to Ian constantly disappearing and reappearing that he had grown unbothered by it. Soon, Fiona and Lip pulled Ian into the kitchen, leaving Mickey with the younger siblings in the living room. He could hear harsh whispers and peaked in, worried. Ian sat at the kitchen table, his siblings across from him, side by side. The small table between them may as well have been a vast ocean. Ian’s face was carefully blank as he listened to them speak. Tired eyes rimmed with red and fingers twitching on his lap, evidence of his distress.

Ian and Mickey left shortly after, walked home under the night sky. The redheaded man begun to speak softly as they moved.

“Fiona and Lip told me that Monica died a few weeks ago. Overdose.”

Mickey reached over and gripped Ian’s hand. Resisted the urge to dart his eyes around their surroundings and look for possible witnesses of their affection.

“They think I’m just like her. Said that if I don’t stop being like this, I’m going to be next.” Ian continued.

Mickey pushed back his inky black hair with his free hand, rubbed a thumb along his brow. Attempted nonchalance as he replied.

“Yeah, well. Fuck them.”

Ian laughed lightly, shifted his grip on Mickey’s hand. Laced together their fingers and squeezed.

 “I don’t think I can be anyway else, Mick. Not anymore.”

They headed to the old abandon building- their concrete castle. Fucked against a graffiti painted wall, hard and rough. Mickey’s toes curled and his vision went spotty, black. Dizzy.

They fell asleep in that old building, curled around each other, blanketed by the warm summer air. Sung to sleep by the urban jungle breathing around them. Mickey knew that maybe Ian would die young, living so recklessly.

But if he did, he wouldn’t die alone.

-

When Mickey was seven years old an old lady moved in down the street, Ms. Greenfield. She had short white hair and a faded English accent, smelled like clean laundry. If you visited her she would serve freshly baked cookies and tea with too much milk and sugar to really be called tea. Mickey would walk by her house on his way home from school and often dropped in. He would willingly suffer through her rambles in order to be rewarded with a baked treat. Not because he actually fucking enjoyed being doted on by the old bird, he just liked sweet things.

Ms. Greenfield had two lush rose bushes on either side of the steps leading up to her front porch. Pretty blossoms that bloomed into little fireworks, golden cores and crimson tips. Mickey’s chubby little fingers would twitch, longing to pick the fragile flowers and keep them for himself. Pull each petal off one by one and gather them in his hands, throw them into the air like confetti.

Ms. Greenfield saw Mickey eyeing them one day and warned in her frail voice, “Look but do not touch, my dear. They seem soft and pretty but they have teeth and they will bite you.” She patted his head “Think of it as God’s way of teaching you not to be greedy. Just because you really want something, doesn’t always mean you can have it.”

Young Mickey, with his still somewhat innocent mind, imagined little razors hidden between velvety petals. Floral piranhas. Whenever he walked by, wide blue eyes would watch the colourful flowers with apprehensive intrigue, afraid that if he got too close they would unhinge their jaws and snap at him.

A year later, after Ms. Greenfield had died, Mickey stopped in front of her now empty house one day on his way to school. Saw that the buds had once again opened their arms to the world and bloomed just as beautifully as before. He approached them cautiously and thought, perhaps he wanted a souvenir, something to remember that kind old lady. He stood in front of the seemingly innocent plant and took a deep breath. So quick, he darted his hand forward and gripped a delicate green stem, jerking his arm up. Yanking the colourful treasure from where it was tethered to the earth, breaking its lifeline like a doctor cutting the umbilical cord of a newborn babe, swift and steady.

For a moment, he watched the flower. Pleased to see it hadn’t opened its mouth to snarl at him and thought, just maybe, that crazy old lady was wrong. Or, just maybe, this flower had wanted to be freed from its chains. Maybe it wanted Mickey, too.

But it didn’t take long for Mickey to notice a stinging in his hand. He uncurled his fingers, careful not to drop his prize, mouth dropped in surprise, disbelief.

His hand was raw and torn. Across his palm, the rose had left a trail of little bite marks.

_Just because you want something…_

The world outside moved at the same pace. The sun still rose early every morning, the old couple down the street would still bicker loudly on their front porch, the stupid fucking dog still yapped his head off at those dumbass fucking kids. The world kept spinning, and Mickey held his breath.

Ian began to slow down.

Little things, at first. Not going for runs in the morning, long bouts of quiet. Forced smiles and vacant eyes.

Mickey knew he should prepare himself, but he couldn’t let go. Wouldn’t. Because when it came to Ian, Mickey knew.

He would rather be left with hands torn and bloody, than empty.

\--

A week later, Mickey woke to a cold bed. He reached over to Ian’s side, expecting to feel his warm firm body, but was met with empty space. Instantly alert, he held his breath, straining his ears in an attempt to detect any sort of noise in the house.

He was met was silence.

Sitting up, Mickey turned to look towards the door. Something was wrong, he could feel it.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong._

Quickly, he rolled out of bed and stumbled across the room, bare feet padding against stained carpet. The bathroom light was on, creeping beneath the crack of the closed door.

Mickey stepped closer and paused, placed his ear again the wooden surface and listened.

Still, silence.

“Ian?” he called, voice tremored. Tapped a tattooed knuckle softly against the door. He didn’t receive a reply, didn’t really wait long enough for one, impatiently turning the worn metal knob. The door whined into the night as it was pushed open. Light tumbled out of the room and burned his eyes, but Mickey didn’t flinch. Adrenaline muffled the sting.

His gaze was automatically drawn to Ian, as it always was. The copper haired man sat on the edge of the tub, hunched over, clutching his hand into his chest. Mickey scanned his body for injuries, blood, but saw none. He felt his body sag with relief and stepped into the room.

“Ian, what...” pausing mid-sentence, mid step, Mickey lifted his foot to find an orange container lying on the ground. Empty. Two others nearby. He sucked in a deep breath, sucked down the fear threatening to choke him. Breathed it out.

“Ian, what did you do?” His voice was thick, wet. Accusing.

“I didn’t swallow them, if that’s what you’re worried about” Ian croaked, still looking down. “I was thinking about it but…” Ian shrugged, “just flushed ‘em”

Mickey studied Ian a moment before looking back down, bending over to pick up one of the containers. Tiny letters in blocky black ink, too worn to read the name once printed, but the date was old. Pills that Iggy had stolen a while ago with the intent to sell.

Wide eyed, Mickey looked up and met Ian’s worn gaze. The copper haired boy smiled joylessly.

“I tried Mick. The day after we visited my family I even called the clinic to book an appointment” He spoke, strained. As if the words were too heavy to push out.

“I’m supposed to go in next week but I know they are just going to force a bunch of drugs down my throat…” His voice trailed off. Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed down words unspoken. “and they _always_ , make me want to...” clenched his hand tighter his chest, the muscles in his arms flexing.

“Why didn’t you fuckin’ tell me you were thinking ‘bout this shit?” Mickey asked, still standing in the middle of the room. Lost.

Ian shrugged with one shoulder, glanced down.

Mickey took a step closer and spotted the forest green lighter laying at Ian’s feet. Watery blue eyes darted to the hand clutched against Ian’s chest.

“Ian…” he began carefully, heart beating so hard he could hear the blood pulsing through his veins.

“Ian, let me see your hands.”

Ian looked up at Mickey, expression blank, and slowly stretched out his arm. His left palm marred with fresh angry red burns. Blistered kisses trailed up his wrist, blotches covering the speckled tattoos painted by the summer sun.

Mickey kneeled down in front of Ian, carefully grabbed his injured hand and studied the violent marks. Black inky dread dripped through his eyes and into his mind, seeped through his body. Mickey swallowed down the acidic fear the crept up his throat. He knew Ian could be self-destructive, but it was usually unintentional. This, Mickey had never dealt with this. Had hoped that he would never have to worry about it. Ian closed his fist and tried to move away, but Mickey held on tight. A recurring theme in their life.

“I just wanted to feel something,” Ian explained, his attempt to comfort only worrying Mickey more. “It didn’t hurt though… I mean, I guess it did.” Ian took a deep breath in. Out.

“Maybe I just didn’t mind it, the pain. It was something... at least.” Ian looked down at Mickey, the black haired man was still kneeling in front of him. Holding tight onto his arm, had tilted downward, face hidden. But there was no hiding the truth when salt dripped from his eyes onto Ian’s lap. When his shoulders gave a stuttering shake.

Ian tensed.

“Mickey, I’m sorry. I can’t... Fuck.” He tilted his head up the ceiling, blinked back his own tears before trying again.

“I need to leave, staying here. Fuck. I get stuck. Trapped. I need something to distract me, to keep moving or I will sink. The pills don’t work, they didn’t with my mom and they don’t with me. I’m fucked for life, Mick” He paused, hesitated before continuing. “But, it don’t mean you have to be.”

Mickey looked up to meet Ian’s gaze, startled. “What the fuck are you going on about?”

Ian took a deep breath and twisted his hands to hold Mickey’s, seemingly numb to the pain that seared up his burned arm.

“Tell me not to come back” Ian spoke, words shooting spikes of dread through Micky’s chest.

“What?” Mickey stuttered in shock, brows furrowed, looked up at Ian from where he was crouched before him.

“You shouldn’t have to wait around for me, trapped by my crazy shit. You deserve better, Mickey”

Ian stared down into his eyes, pleading, “I won’t come back if you tell me not to. Tell me you don’t want me, don’t need me. Tell me not to come back.”

Mickey, eyes heavy with tears, looked down. Ducked his head and pressed his lips against freckled knuckles.

“Ian” He begun, voice wavering, muffled against Ian’s skin. He felt the other boy tense, listening. Waiting. Mickey felt the fear creeping up, trying to drench his truth in thick, sticky tar.

_He doesn’t want you, this is his way of trying to get rid of you._

He swallowed it down, this time. Spoke the words that sang through his mind so many times before, but never past his lips. Perhaps it was the shock of seeing Ian hurt. Perhaps it was the intense love he felt for this man. Growing day by day, moment by moment. Maybe it became too big, too heavy. Its weight causing something in Mickey to snap, triggering a switch that ignited a fire in Mickey’s mind, his soul. Like the lighter that had burned the man before him. Torching the fear until it fell to ashes on the ground. He took in a deep breath… and it all blew away. Dust.

Head still tilted down, Ian’s hands clasped between his own. Mickey’s voice rang clear.

“I’m always going to fucking want you, Ian.  I’m always going to need you.”

He lifted his head, slowly, reached up to hold Ian’s face between his hands. Stared deeply into bloodshot green eyes. Wide, stripped bare.

“Please, _please._ Ian.” His hands quivered with fear but his voice was steady. Strong. The prayer that he had only ever whispered through soft kisses against sweet lips.

“Please, don’t leave me.”

_They seem soft and pretty but they have teeth and they will bite you._

-

The next morning, Mickey didn’t need to try to listen, didn’t need to open his eyes. Didn’t look to see if Ian’s bag was gone. He knew.

Stumbling into the kitchen, every movement echoing in the hollow space. He pulled open the fridge door and grabbed a can of beer. The case still untouched from before Ian had arrived.

He cracked the can open, the sharp sound rang through the empty house. Chilled metal cold in his hand.

The floor creaked beneath his bare feet as he made his way back to his bedroom, stood the doorway and gazed inside. Gazed at the redheaded figure laying still on his bed, his back turned towards Mickey, buried beneath old cotton blankets and melancholy.

Mickey walked deeper into his room, placed his beer on the bedside table before laying down, crawling his way under the heavy blankets to be next to Ian. Mickey wrapped his bare arms firmly around the taller man and pulled him against his body, back to chest. He buried his face into the crook of Ian's neck and squeezed him closer. Breathed Ian in, feeling the warmth of love fill the pit of his stomach. Mickey tried not to feel like he was holding Ian captive, forcing Ian to sit still and suffer through his pain just so Mickey wouldn't be left alone again. Tried not to feel like he was dooming him.

Because, fuck it.

Mickey was done waiting.

∞∞∞


End file.
